TILL o'er the wilderness.

The sound of the wind arose anon,

Settled the moveless mist.

That scattered the thick mist,

heard their steps

Stood doubtful where to turn

in that dim light;

t The ostrich, blindly has

tening, met them full.

At night again in hope

Young Thalaba lay down;

The morning came, and not one guiding

ray

Through the thick mist was visibleThe same deep moveless mist that mantled

all.

Oh for the vulture's scream, Who haunts for prey the abode of humankind!

Oh for the plover's pleasant cry,

To tell of water near!

Oh for the camel-driver's song! For now the water-skin grows light, Though of the draught, more eagerly desired,

Alas! a wretched scene

Was opened on their view. They looked around: no wells were near, No tent, no human aid.

Flat on the camel lay the water-skin, And their dumb servant, difficultly now, Over hot sands and under the hot sun,

Dragged on with patient pain.

But oh the joy, the blessed sight, When in that burning waste the travellers Saw a green meadow fair with flowers besprent,

Azure and yellow, like the beautiful fields Of England, when amid the growing grass The bluebell bends, the golden king-cup shines,

And the sweet cowslip scents the genial air,

In the merry month of May!

Oh, joy! The travellers

Oft from the third night's broken sleep,

As in his dreams he heard
The sound of rushing winds,
Started the anxious youth and looked abroad
In vain; for still the deadly calm endured.

Another day passed on:
The water-skin was drained.
But then one hope arrived,
For there was motion in the air;

A LAWYER'S FAREWELL TO HIS

MUSE.

AS, by some tyrant's stern command,

A wretch forsakes his native land, In foreign climes condemned to roam An endless exile from his home, Pensive he treads the destined way, And dreads to go, nor dares to stay, Till on some neighboring mountain's brow He stops and turns his eyes below, There, melting at the well-known view, Drops a last tear and bids adieu,So I, thus doomed from thee to part, Gay queen of fancy and of art, Reluctant move with doubtful mind, Oft stop and often look behind."

Companion of my tender age,
Serenely gay and sweetly sage,
How blithesome we were wont to rove

By verdant hill or shady grove,
Where fervent bees with humming voice
Around the honeyed oak rejoice,
And aged elms with awful bend
In long cathedral walks extend!
Lulled by the lapse of gliding floods,
Cheered by the warbling of the woods,
How blest my days, my thoughts how free,
In sweet society with thee!
Then all was joyous, all was young,
And years unheeded rolled along;
But now the pleasing dream is o'er:
These scenes must charm me now no more;
Lost to the fields and torn from you,
Farewell! a long, a last adieu.

Me wrangling courts and stubborn law
To smoke and crowds and cities draw;
There selfish faction rules the day,
And pride and avarice throng the way;

Diseases taint the murky air,

And midnight conflagrations glare; Loose revelry and riot bold

In frighted streets their orgies hold, Or where in silence all is drowned Fell Murder walks his lonely round; No room for peace, no room for you, Adieu, celestial nymph, adieu!

Shakespeare, no more thy sylvan son, Nor all the art of Addison,

Pope's heaven-strung lyre, nor Waller's

ease,

Nor Milton's mighty self, must please:
Instead of these, a formal band

In furs and coifs around me stand;
With sounds uncouth and accents dry,
That grate the soul of harmony,
Each pedant sage unlocks his store
Of mystic, dark, discordant lore,
And points with tottering hand the ways
That lead me to the thorny maze.
There, in a winding close retreat,
Is Justice doomed to fix her seat;
There, fenced by bulwarks of the law,
She keeps the wondering world in awe;
And there, from vulgar sight retired
Like Eastern queen, is more admired.

Oh let me pierce the secret shade
Where dwells the venerable maid,
There humbly mark, with reverend awe,
The guardian of Britannia's law;
Unfold with joy her sacred page-
The united boast of many an age—
Where, mixed yet uniform, appears
The wisdom of a thousand years.
In that pure spring the bottom view,
Clear, deep and regularly true,

And other doctrines thence imbibe
Than lurk within the sordid scribe;
Observe how parts with parts unite
In one harmonious rule of right;
See countless wheels distinctly tend
By various laws to one great end;
While mighty Alfred's piercing soul
Pervades and regulates the whole.
Then welcome business, welcome strife,
Welcome the cares, the thorns, of life,
The visage wan, the pore-blind sight,
The toil by day, the lamp at night,
The tedious forms, the solemn prate,
The pert dispute, the dull debate,
The drowsy bench, the babbling hall,
For thee, fair Justice, welcome all!

Thus, though my noon of life be past,
Yet let my setting sun at last
Find out the still, the rural cell
Where sage Retirement loves to dwell:
There let me taste the homefelt bliss
Of innocence and inward peace.
Untainted by the guilty bribe,
Uncursed amid the harpy tribe,
No orphan's cry to wound my ear,
My honor and my conscience clear,
'Thus may I calmly meet my end,
in peace descend.

Thus to the grave

I wore my bridal robe,

And I rivalled its whiteness; Bright gems were in my hair:

How I hated their brightness!
He called me by my name

As the bride of another.
Oh, thou hast been the cause
Of this anguish, my mother!
And once again we met,

And a fair girl was near him;
He smiled and whispered low,
As I once used to hear him.
She leant upon his arm:

Once 'twas mine, and mine only;

I wept, for I deserved

To feel wretched and lonely.

And all the bells are ringing round-
One, two, three, four and five-

I at my study-window sit,
And, wrapped in many a musing fit,
To bliss am all alive.

But, though impressions calm and sweet
Thrill round my heart a holy heat
And I am inly glad,

The teardrop stands in either eye,

suit :

She sowed the seeds, but Death has reaped

the fruit.

'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow, And helped to plant the wound that laid thee low.

I am pleased, and yet I'm sad. The silvery rack that flies away Like mortal life or pleasure's rayDoes that disturb my breast? Nay! what have I, a studious man,

again,

Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart, And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart.

Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel He nursed the pinion which impelled the steel,

While the same plumage that had warmed his nest

Or pleasure's fading vest?

Is it that here I must not stop,
But o'er blue hill's woody top

yon

Must bend my lonely way? No-surely no! for give but me My own fireside, and I shall be

At home where'er I stray. Then is it that yon steeple there

With music sweet shall fill the air

When thou no more canst hear? Oh no! oh no! for then, forgiven,

breast.

LORD BYRON.

* Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge in October, 1806, in consequence of too much exertion in the pursuit

of studies that would have matured a mind which disease and poverty could not impair, and which death itself destroyed rather than subdued. His poems abound in such

Released from every fear.

Then whence it is I cannot tell, But there is some mysterious spell

That holds me when I'm glad; And so the teardrop fills my eye,

assume.

Or wherefore I am sad.

WENT

HENRY KIRKE WHITE